Chapter Five
The foundry fires had dimmed by the time Heron burst through the courtyard gate, using the hidden lever to open it from the outside.
The sun had set, leaving a pink haze in the sky. Torches had sprung up throughout the city. Heron moved through the near darkness of the foundry, slamming her foot against obstacles more than once in her rush.
In a pile of black sand, broken from the mold, faintly glowing pieces of broken egg shell, or at least that's what they appeared to be, lay scattered. Heron couldn't remember what job Punt had been working on.
"Master Heron?" A gruff voice rumbled through the darkness.
Punt stood away from the fire, something clutched in his hand. He appeared confused or conflicted. She couldn't tell in the dim light.
"Another fine pour," she said, noticing the thinness of the castings.
"Pour?" Punt hesitated, clearly lost in thoughts. "Oh. Thank you, Master Heron." His voice was as steady and emotionless as his mannerisms. Sudden movements did not make for a foundryman that lived long and no better foundryman existed in the whole of Alexandria, and maybe not in the whole of the known world. At least he would find work again easily, she thought.
"In truth, I thought them egg shells of some great bird, so skillful your craft," she said.
Punt mumbled.
"But I'm sorry to say they will progress no further in this workshop," she said. "Sepharia and I must flee the city ahead of our debts."
Heron expected Punt to offer condolences or frustration, or say nothing at all, as his thoughts usually ran deep.
"A man came to the gate a little while ago," said Punt.
Her heart constricted.
"Was it Lysimachus?" she asked.
Punt shook his head, while staring at the small bag in his hand.
"A northerner by his garb and massive, even accounting for my size." Punt stood a head shorter than Heron. He was not a dwarf, but he was not much taller than one.
Heron knew that it had to be the same northerner she'd seen in the Temple of Nekhbet. The man stuck out like a botched equation in a number sieve.
She didn't know much about northern customs. Maybe he was coming to collect damages since he'd been in the temple during the near collapse.
"I have no time for him now," she said. "I'm certain I will not get a chance to conclude proper goodbyes with Plutarch and the others. Would you give them my heartfelt thanks for such exemplary service in my workshop?"
Heron left Punt in the foundry, fumbling for his words. If she'd waited for him to get them out, it would give Lys more time to come calling.
Sepharia was hunched over a table with her goggles fastened on her head, working under the light of a half-burnt candle, delicately tapping a miniature brass hammer against a tiny chain.
"Sepharia," Heron said gravely.
Her niece burst into tears as soon as she turned.
"Gather your things," said Heron. "We must flee this night."
"But this is our home." The tears streaked down Sepharia's face, smearing the dirt.
"No time for tears," said Heron, wondering if she should have kept her niece so protected all these years. Now she would have to face the cruel world outside the workshop walls.
A heavy banging on the front door startled them both.
"Blow out your candle," Heron whispered through gritted teeth.
Someone banged again, and Heron heard a familiar voice calling out. Heron snuck up to the entryway while the banging continued.
"Open this door or I'll have my men break it down and then I won't be so forgiving," said Lysimachus.
Heron began backing away slowly. They would have to flee without any of their things.
"And if you're thinking about escaping out the back, I have guards posted there as well," yelled Lysimachus.
Heron closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Guards meant rough men with clubs and not a hint of mercy. She wouldn't be able to avoid this encounter.
"Just a moment," she yelled out.
Heron collected herself before she opened the door. Outside, Lysimachus waited with four thugs. His opulent attire contrasted to their rough tunics and dirty feet.
"Alabarch Lysimachus, so pleased to have you visit my humble workshop," said Heron, bowing slightly.
"If by humble you mean poor, then by all means," sneered Lysimachus. "When I heard about the Temple of Nekhbet, I thought I should make sure you didn't think about fleeing the city."
"I have other jobs," she said. "I will pay my debts."
The Alabarch brushed aside an errant curl and smiled wistfully. "Oh, but I'm sure they will dry up, as sure as the great desert, when they hear of this disaster. I'm beginning to believe all the talk about you being cursed."
Heron blew hot breath from her lips. "The fault lies squarely at the foot of the temple's high priest Ghet. He'd tampered with my designs and caused the statue's fall. I intend to take him to court."
Lysimachus made an amused sound. "The result, win or lose, will leave you still far short of the customers required to pay your debts. Who wants to do business with someone who's always suing their way out of their mistakes?"
Heron had nothing to say, because the customs man was right. But she hadn't really intended to sue, because she was going to flee the city. Lysimachus saw right through her.
"So there you have it. A miracle worker whose miracles are frowned upon by the gods." The Alabarch had wandered inside the entryway, pushing his way past, two of the thugs followed, while the other two stayed outside.
"To be honest," said Lysimachus. "I believe more in the might of arms and coin, rather than the fickle whims of the gods. I might as well be tossing bones to understand them."
Lysimachus straightened his crimson chlamys, pursing his lips while he did.
"But I truly wonder about this curse thing. I might be doing you a favor by shutting you down and selling you to pay your debts," he said.
The two thugs moved near Heron. She felt they were going to grab her at any moment.
"And maybe it is the gods who divine your fate," he said. "For this morning I saw a vision, standing in this very room. One that I did not know existed until today."
Heron steeled her face, knowing he spoke of Sepharia. "What vision do you speak of?"
Lysimachus moved close to Heron, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Why your daughter. And I can see why you've been hiding her all these years. She could make Helen of Troy jealous."
"I have no daughter," said Heron. "That girl works for me."
Lysimachus laughed, his pot belly shaking. Even his thugs chuckled along with their master.
"I'm no fool, so don't play me as one," said Lysimachus. "That girl is as much your daughter as the Governor likes boys, and I should know, I've sold him a fair share."
It was common knowledge that Governor Flaccus purchased boys for his amusement, but saying such things out loud could be dangerous. That Lysimachus said it so easily showed Heron how much power the customs man had gathered.
"Don't be so glum, dear Heron," said Lysimachus, squinting and giving a rueful smile as if he'd just said the most entertaining thing. "That daughter might be proof that the gods haven't cursed you."
Heron held her tongue, as nothing she could say would help her cause.
"I'd be willing to forgive some of—" Lysimachus was cut short when Punt appeared suddenly.
The four thugs reacted swiftly to his presence, two moving to defend the Alabarch, and two moving to intercept Punt. Though considerably shorter than the thugs, his arms were as big as their legs and littered with scars from the foundry. Punt had been able to sneak up so easily because his skin, already a deep bronze, was covered in soot, making him nearly invisible in the dark.
Heron moved to stop Punt from attacking Lysimachus, thinking that was his intent. Punt surprised them all by tossing a small object at the customs man.
&
nbsp; She knew what it was the moment it hit Lysimachus' hands, but not how he had acquired it. The bag made a heavy chink—the sound of coins.
"Apologies Alabarch and Master Heron for interrupting," said Punt in his gruff emotionless tone.
Heron sensed by the way that Lysimachus weighed the bag in his hand that the sum was sizable. She wanted to pepper Punt with questions, but doing so would risk whatever stratagem he was invoking.
"Payment for one of our other jobs just came in," said Punt.
Lysimachus' mood soured as he peeked into the bag. His thugs seemed thoroughly confused by the change in events, visibly hesitating on their way to accost Punt.
"Stand down," said Lysimachus and the thugs backed off.
Punt glanced stone-faced at Heron. "It was the northerner that had come in earlier. I forgot to give you the payment in my haste to break my molds before they had cooled too much. Apologies for my inattentiveness."
Heron kept her face calm, as she knew of no job they had contracted for the northerner. "Apologies accepted Punt, but do make sure that it doesn't happen again. We should not challenge our guests with surprises."
She nodded and Punt left the entry room. One of the thugs tried to keep him from leaving by putting out his arm, but Punt walked right through it. Heron knew well enough from bumping into Punt that he was built from granite.
"Cursed or favored, the gods can't seem to make up their mind," said Lysimachus coldly. "Either way, this payment only covers your interest for the turn of another moon. I will expect another payment equal to this, plus a sizable dent in your principle at that time equal to forty talents."
Heron nearly choked on the amount.
Lysimachus tucked the coin purse into his silver belt and prepared to leave. As he crossed the threshold of her entryway, he paused and said over his shoulder: "I would be happy to take a loss on my debts for the company of a certain young lady, regardless if she is your daughter or not."
"I would sell myself first," said Heron.
"It may come to that." Lysimachus snorted and motioned for his thugs to follow. Spinning around and walking backwards, the Alabarch yelled back to her with arms raised. "And don't even think of running. I'll be giving all the gate guards your descriptions and offering hefty rewards should you dare to run."
The Alabarch turned back around, laughing, tending his curls bouncing on his head and straightening his chlamys.
Heron sunk to her heels and put a hand to her mouth. She heard a soft footfall behind her and spun around to find Sepharia lurking in the darkness.
Her niece made a tiny yelp and scurried off. There was no doubt that Sepharia had heard the Alabarch's threats and his interest in her.
Heron's head thrummed with the implications of an impending migraine. Tiny spots formed before her eyes and her stomach roiled in nausea. Before the migraine could claim her completely, Heron stumbled to her quarters and crashed onto the cot, letting the pain consume her.
Fires of Alexandria Page 5